Restless Sinner
by Timesprite
Summary: Syndicate Era; A fight gone bad leaves Spike and Vicious lying low with nothing to do. M/M, foul language, drug use.


**Note**: While this is hardly the first bit of slash fiction I've ever written, it's the first I've actually dared to post, so be kind? If that's not going to be your cup of tea, you probably don't want to read on. Theoretically, this could probably have been included with everything in Sons of the Silent Age, but due to length and rating (mostly the latter) I decided to post it on its own. Standard disclaimers about Cowboy Bebop not being mine apply.

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Restless Sinner**

It was a sad excuse for a safehouse, even by their standards, but Spike figured that was probably part of their punishment. He'd picked a fight with the wrong person in the wrong bar and it might have ended in nothing more than broken glass and bloodied knuckles, but Vicious has turned up and then there were bodies. There were always bodies when Vicious was involved. Unfortunately, this time the bodies belonged to a couple of White Tigers, the rest of whom were now prowling around looking for revenge, so Mao had sent them off before things could get worse.

Three days and Spike was ready to climb the walls. Thankfully, they were not completely without their usual entertainments, and he was feeling considerably more mellow now courtesy of the joint in his hand. Vicious had opted for the other end of the recreational pharmaceutical spectrum and was pacing the floor like a caged animal. All that back-and-forth was fucking with Spike's head.

"Sit the hell down, will you?"

He got a snarl that was more feral dog than human, and cursed to himself. He could deal with Vicious in pretty much any mood, but he never hated him more than when he was wound tight on the Red Eye and had nothing to take all that violence out on. Spike grabbed a can of beer gone lukewarm on the coffee table and downed the last of it before throwing the empty at Vicious' head. There was something almost comical about the way Vicious spun--all exaggerated movement and no grace--and nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Sit. The fuck down. I can't watch you anymore." He'd have been a little kinder, but it was the silver-haired bastard's fault they were stuck there anyway. He was on the receiving end of a nasty look for a moment before the man finally relented, dropping down onto the other end of the couch. "Here. Take it." He stretched across the space between them, offering the joint, but Vicious dismissed him with a wave of a hand, head tilted back, legs splayed, but nothing approaching relaxed.

Spike snorted and took another drag, shaking his head. "You're all fucked up." He made a vague gesture at the obvious erection tenting the front of Vicious' trousers. "Go do something about that. It's obscene."

The pot made him slow, the Red Eye made Vicious faster than usual, and he blamed that for the fact that he didn't even see him _move_, just found himself back against the arm of the couch with one of Vicious' hands on his throat and the other with a vise-like grip on his wrist. The joint fell from nerveless fingers, probably to smolder on the threadbare carpet.

"Jesus _Christ_!" He thrashed once but couldn't dislodge him and groaned because Vicious was pressed up flush against him and _fuck_, he couldn't seem to get his head on straight. He shoved against Vicious' shoulder with his free hand, giving up when he felt the hand on his throat tighten in response. He had a rare glimpse of steel grey eyes before Vicious was kissing him, hard and angry.

The hand on his wrist was gone, plucking at the button on his jeans and _goddamn_ he was hard, which was ridiculous because this was _Vicious_ of all people. Sword-callused fingers wrapped around his cock, jerking him off with a precise sort of skill that had Vicious written all over it.

It wasn't really a conscious decision to snake his own hand between them and return the favor, just seemed the thing to do when your best friend had you by the throat while giving you the best damned hand-job you'd had in years. It wasn't so strange if he just tried to pretend the cock in his hand was his own.

In the end, they both ended up sprawled and panting, Spike wincing at the bruises forming on his neck and scrambling frantically to work out just what the fuck had happened, Vicious doing a remarkable impression of a thoroughly debauched corpse on the other side of the couch as the Red Eye burned its way out of his system.

"What the fuck was _that_?" He finally managed, feeling like the world was still reeling around him.

Vicious' only response was to crack an eye open at him and stare for a long moment before pulling himself to his feet and vanishing into the bathroom.

"Well, fuck."


End file.
